


Going Offline

by theoldgods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom Irene Adler, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/M, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Come Eating, M/M, Military Kink, Missing Scene, Multi, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Sherlock's Coat, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene is good at breaking and entering. Sherlock is good at thinking. John is surprisingly good at subconsciously controlling Sherlock.</p><p>Sherlock, as it turns out, is also quite good at letting go—if he has Irene and John to lead him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Offline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soo/gifts).



> This is a mostly canon-compliant/light fixit fic from 2x01 for these three for soo, who wanted a threesome that was "a one time thing or an exploration of John & Sherlock's kinkier side." I've done my best to keep things SSC, but as I'm not a BDSM practitioner myself, things may be slightly off, and a few liberties in the physics of tying have been taken for the sake of the porn.

It doesn’t take long to rouse Irene from her position sprawled across Sherlock’s bed—a small mercy for which John finds himself thankful as heat flares in his gut. She is soft like he has never seen her before, her face rounder than normal and her hair spread down past her shoulders as she rolls onto her stomach and surveys John and Sherlock.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Thank you,” John says, a touch petulantly perhaps, as Sherlock looks at the ceiling. “Break-in successful, then?”

“Brilliant,” Irene murmurs, twirling a lock of hair around a finger. John rolls his eyes. “Beautiful, even. Wish you could’ve seen it.”

Sherlock transfers his gaze to the periodic table hanging on the wall. He is vibrating softly, John realizes, looking at his hands, one long finger twitching every few moments.

“I think you’ve managed to break him,” John remarks, watching as Irene rolls over onto her back once more and stares up at them upside down. “I know for a fact he’s got the entire periodic table already memorized—probably found faults, too, how a decimal is off in the atomic weight of cesium.”

“Copernicium,” Sherlock whispers, looking down at Irene, his head moving so slowly, as if trapped in honey. “I try writing, but no one will listen—”

“They’re too smart for that,” John replies. Sherlock swallows and scowls but says nothing, and Irene laughs, shaking the bed beneath her.

“I’m in the wrong house; my apologies. I didn’t realize there was already a dom here.”

“John would be a terrible dominant.” Sherlock’s eyes are grayer than Irene’s, but the blue in them intensifies to better match the color of hers as they lock gazes. “He’d hit too hard.”

“I’m not the one who flogs bloody corpses, Sherlock!”

“Necrophilia,” Irene says, sitting up at last. “Not entirely unexpected, coming from you, I must say. And doms are not always corporal punishment; I’m just fond of my whip. The psychology is what matters.” She gives John a once-over, raising an eyebrow at his hands behind his back—parade rest, he realizes, what he always finds himself doing in any odd situation—and he feels a vein begin to throb in his head. Blood also begins to pool near his prick, and _that_ John tamps down upon, resolutely not blushing as Irene winks at his crotch.

“This dissection is all fascinating, but I have a few human hearts at Bart’s that are more intriguing.” Sherlock reaches over to the door to pull off the blue dressing gown hanging there and offers it to Irene, all without looking directly into her face. “A shower would help, and then you can explain what you’re doing here.”

“How you got in would be good to hear as well,” John remarks. Sherlock, already halfway into the living room, calls over his shoulder.

“Not necessary, John; we already know.”

Irene strips, revealing full creamy breasts _again_ , and John shakes his head.

“Shower’s through there,” he directs, as Irene slides out of her loose trousers and pants and stretches. “And although your show means more to me than it does to Himself, I don’t go for people who are fond of home invasion, yeah?”

“I believe I have a standing invitation with Himself,” Irene says, getting to her feet. “He finally texted me back, you see.”

“In that case, I have the world’s longest standing invitation with Sherlock Holmes, as my texting bill will show.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth John knows he’s made a mistake—something that Irene’s predatory smile confirms as she enters the bathroom. John shakes his head and goes into the living room, speaking to cover the churning in his stomach. “ _We_ don’t know anything, Sherlock— _you_ do.”

* * *

 “Double oh seven,” Sherlock mutters, for the tenth or so time. John’s sent the full flight schedules to Sherlock’s phone for his reference, not that he notices, lost as he is in this frantic chase down the backside of his memory. Irene, who had been standing in the corner idly thumbing her own phone, steps forward now and takes Sherlock’s head in her hands, startling him back to consciousness.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Begging for mercy—how about we start with once and see where it goes from there?”

“I don’t—I have to think.” Sherlock _whispers_ this, his voice almost as small as a little boy’s, and John’s eyes widen further. “Why double oh seven?”

“Schemes, I’m sure.” Irene runs a finger down his cheek. “But standing here whinging about it won’t do any good.”

“I’m not _whinging_ —”

“You’ve got yourself a proper dominatrix now, Sherlock,” John remarks, slamming his laptop’s lid shut. Sherlock jumps.

“And yet you’ve got the upper hand in the scaring Sherlock department, Doctor Watson.” John refuses to look away as Irene puts her index finger against Sherlock’s lips. “He’s such a headstrong one, really—he needs two of us.”

“What a happy family we make.” John stands up and moves toward them, uncertain of what he’s actually _doing_. His prick has once more begun to stir, and he finds himself thinking how much easier it would be to explain an erection than a blush. “Unfortunately for you, I’m still not convinced that Sherlock actually is interested in your services, or those of anyone else.”

“Oh, he liked my whip very much, did Mister Holmes,” Irene says, and Sherlock _shivers_ under her touch. John resolutely does not react, though he can feel how easily his eyes would leap out of his head at this point. “Such a big brain needs another outlet, sometimes. The simple rise and fall of...arousal...is not enough for release.”

“Pain, then?” John asks, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. They widen, his mouth turning down slightly at the corners. Irene massages them with her index finger. “No?”

“Going offline, perhaps.” Irene drags the fingers of her other hand through Sherlock’s hair and cups the back of his neck. “It stops the thoughts. Makes everything go straight. Is that it, Mister Holmes?”

Sherlock swallows. John smiles.

“Like the drugs.”

“I’m completely in control—”

Irene digs her nails into the thin skin of Sherlock’s neck until he stops speaking. John feels his prick grow harder in his trousers—at the red against white, yes, and how Irene’s lips purse so beautifully, but also at how Sherlock’s neck bends, muscles taut, how his eyes roll back into his head, how the tension evaporates from his mouth at her touch.

“Like the drugs,” John says again, stepping yet closer and putting the pads of his fingers against Sherlock’s scalp. He _feels_ Sherlock sag, minutely, beneath his touch, and a thrill runs down the back of his own neck. “When it gets too bloody much, you have a danger night, a run to the nearest substance, drive Mycroft nearly out of his mind. That last bit’s for fun, I grant you.” He smiles. “And you’re smart enough to not get totally consumed, or so they say. But _nobody_ is in full control under the influence. That’s the point.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, Mister Holmes,” Irene adds. “There’s nothing to be gained from lying. There’s a lot to gain from letting go.”

“Double oh seven,” Sherlock whispers, throat working harder than is strictly necessary to produce those sounds.

“There’s _that_ to gain.” At Sherlock’s skeptical squawk, Irene tightens the grip of her fingers along his neck, digging in with more than just her nails. “Do you ever wonder what might happen, Mister Holmes, if you blew yourself up and then came back to a problem?”

“And not with C4, either.” John hasn’t let his mouth run like this in months, not since the one with the spots, who was particularly fond of dirty talk. He’s always considered himself shit at that, but giving orders...it’s not something he’d really thought of bringing outside the military in any formal way, but this has his prick harder than it’s been in weeks and a shiver going up and down his spine. Something about seeing neverending smartarse Sherlock Holmes finally silenced, in part by his own words, is alarmingly arousing.

“Charming innuendo,” Sherlock murmurs, but his face is slack, eyes luxuriously closed, even as his neck remains tense beneath Irene’s grip.

“I’m impressed you picked up on it, but then again, you do have a certain _perversity_ , a willingness to undo all my expectations.”

“Mmm.”

“Hold him a moment,” Irene says, and John raises an eyebrow as he curls his own fingers around Sherlock’s neck, cupping his chin. He feels Sherlock’s pulse beat faster beneath his grip and swallows down his own rising arousal, willing his cock to be the only sign of the effect all of this is having on him. Long ago John gave into his bizarre urge to be near, watch, _live with_ Sherlock Holmes, in so many different ways, but he has never actually touched Sherlock like this before and never assumed Sherlock was capable of any such response himself.

“Your fingers,” Sherlock whispers, eyelids fluttering.  “ _Yes_.”

“Hush now, I’m only returning your coat.”

John’s fingers tighten in surprise; Sherlock sputters. Irene stands behind them, naked but for Sherlock’s coat.

“I left my whip at home, Mister Holmes; I hope this will suffice.”

“His own self, reflecting back at him, telling him what to do?” John smiles, massaging Sherlock’s neck where his fingers briefly constricted. “He’ll be hard as nails.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “Won’t you, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, tongue flicking. John bites his lips at the sight.

Irene steps forward to take a fistful of Sherlock’s curls and bend his head further back. “Yes _what_ , Mister Holmes?”

Something like a laugh bubbles beneath John’s grip on Sherlock, though Sherlock’s face remains serene. “Yes, Captain Watson, sir.”

“Find that funny, do you?” John steps closer, and now his prick is pressing up against Sherlock’s chest—the lightest touch, but the first, he realizes with the part of him that’s small, lurching, and uncertain. Captain Watson presses in a bit further and waits. “If you don’t want to play, say so. Say—”

He glances at Irene, still with her fingers in Sherlock’s hair. She and Sherlock answer in tandem: “Red.”

“And green for go,” Sherlock continues. “I’ve studied, Captain Watson, sir. Green.” And he _winks_.

He _has_ studied, no doubt, probably for a case—nothing that Sherlock Holmes knows can surprise John anymore. He will not look this gift horse in the mouth, however, not when he has inky curls and alabaster skin bending to his will.

“Oh, you have, have you?” Captain Watson stands taller than John does and has a slightly deeper voice; his hands are steady, if perhaps still a bit too eager to grasp, flexing and tightening almost without him realizing it. He breathes in and out and then continues before he can think further. “Cheeky dickhead. Thought about taking me all in? Thought about me keeping your mouth busy with my cock?”

He said _green_ , but Sherlock’s moan still surprises John, still sets something in motion in earnest at the base of his spine. Sherlock’s chest rubbing up against said prick makes John actually gasp. Sherlock appears to ignore that, but Irene looks in John’s direction and tilts her head at Sherlock.

“Do be sure to pay attention to Miss Adler, as well, won’t you, Sherlock?”

Irene’s smile turns into a heavy inhalation of her own as Sherlock thumbs her clit with a trembling hand.

They get Sherlock naked on his bed in what John remembers later as a blur of arousal and confusion, his need to keep his face stoic causing him to crash into the coffee table. Sherlock’s torso and groin are as pale as the rest of him, lithe and gently muscled, and his cock is half-hard, twitching harder as Irene positions herself in front of him, letting the hem of Sherlock’s coat brush against his bare skin. John barks orders as his mind reels, letting his mouth run off all sorts of commanding filth (“I’ll give you this, Sherlock, I know it’s what you need”; “Such a brilliant cock—what would it look like trapped in my mouth as you scream?”) and only stopping when Irene pulls one of John’s ties from the coat’s pocket.

“You’re a brilliant pain in the arse, Mister Holmes,” she whispers into the silence. “You make life harder for yourself. I want to put you beyond your own control and see if you can’t learn to let go, for once in your life. Is this game agreeable?”

Sherlock looks straight at John, meeting his gaze. “Green, Miss Adler.”

John sits at the foot of the bed and cups Sherlock’s cock as Irene lightly binds Sherlock’s hands to the headboard. It’s nothing he couldn’t get out of, John knows—John himself could probably fumble his way clear in a few minutes, tops, rusty as his military training is on this point. Sherlock submits nonetheless, his cock filling as Irene finalizes the knots; John can feel the blood pounding beneath his fingers and closes his eyes for a moment, tweaking the head. Sherlock gasps.

“Ah, naughty Captain Watson.” Irene’s voice can only be described as a purr at this point, and it sends a bolt of lust through John’s own prick. “Rewarding Mister Holmes before he’s even had a chance to earn it.”

“He _is_ a brilliant bugger,” John says. Sherlock shivers. “Oh, do you like that, Sherlock? Do you like being called brilliant? My command of the English language is weak, as you told Miss Adler earlier, but the word _brilliant_ makes your cock pulse.”

He tightens his grip. Sherlock groans and arches his back.

“Yes, sir.”

And isn’t that the sight John didn’t know he needed—Sherlock Holmes arching off bedsheets in pleasure, hands bound, body tight with lust, calling him _sir_. Now that the picture’s been etched into his brain he isn’t sure how he never thought of it before, how he hasn’t wanked furtively to it every evening for the past year.

“I think I’ll strip now, Sherlock. I’m feeling generous—do you want a taste?”

Sherlock smiles. “Of you, Captain Watson, sir?”

Irene leans down and grips the base of Sherlock’s cock, causing him to cry out.

“Insolent, Mister Holmes.”

The sight of Irene’s red nails alongside his own stubby ones, all wrapped around Sherlock’s prick, makes John dizzy. Her fingers are cool and sharp, their touch smooth against his calluses and Sherlock’s blazing skin.

“I will keep you here while Captain Watson gets himself settled.”

She looks at John as she says this, one eyebrow raised in question, and for the first time John feels a rush of fear. A professional dominatrix is deferring to him as they tie his flatmate, his best friend, his _partner_ to a bed, in absence of any previous sexual contact whatsoever.

His prick fills further, fully hard at last.

“Obey Miss Adler, Sherlock,” he says, releasing Sherlock’s cock and undoing the top button of his shirt. If they notice how his voice goes momentarily wobbly, they don’t comment. “Behave and I’ll give you what you want.”

He expects Sherlock not to behave. It’s thoroughly Sherlockian, after all, and it seems to align with, well, the vaguely dominant/submissive porn he’s watched before, with the submissive partner testing the boundaries to earn some pain. Sherlock, however, is perfectly still and silent as he removes his shirt, though his eyes fix on John’s scar.

“So quiet,” John remarks, thumbing open his trousers. “Such a good boy.”

Sherlock pulls against the restraints, mouth falling open.

“Ah ah ah.” Irene runs the fingers of her free hand up Sherlock’s chest; John fumbles with the zip and shucks his trousers in a most unmilitary mess. “Captain Watson found your weak spot. You are in for a world of trouble, Mister Holmes.”

“He’s been well behaved so far,” John says as he pulls down his pants. “Too well behaved. I do not believe this is Mister Sherlock Holmes at all.”

“I’ll take your cock in my mouth.”

John’s ears are roaring. Through his haze of lust and awe he sees Irene tighten her grip around the base of Sherlock’s prick as her other hand closes lightly around his neck.

“You’ll do no such thing.” John’s throat is dry; he pushes the words out nonetheless. Sherlock tilts his head back and smiles. “None of that, being pushy while Miss Adler is good enough to take care of you for me. It’s rude of you to treat her so. Apologize.”

Sherlock shivers. “I’m sorry, Miss Adler.”

“And offering things for me while giving nothing to her. What do you want Sherlock to do for you, Miss Adler?”

Irene stretches her legs, smiling. “Ideally Mister Holmes would take his sweet time eating my cunt. He’s not exactly in the position to do so, however.”

“I can,” Sherlock whispers, looking at the ceiling.

“What’s that, Sherlock, you impudent brat?”

Sherlock arches once more. “I said, sir, I can eat Miss Adler from here if she’d like. Sir.”

“I’ll go easy on him, Captain Watson,” Irene murmurs. “I’ll let him breathe every once in a while.”

“Tell me if he doesn’t please you.”

Irene laughs. “You’ll know.”

One Sunday morning in uni John had lain in bed while a girl bent over him, allowing him to eat her cunt. It had been an almost impossible task, mostly because of the difficulties of breathing with someone sitting on your face. He quickly realizes that this is somewhat different, not least because Irene is able to squat, hovering slightly over Sherlock’s mouth, thanks to her surprisingly powerful legs. He cannot actually see Irene’s cunt as Sherlock begins to mouth at it, but he can hear her gasps, see her hips undulating under the folds of Sherlock’s coat, and he begins a wank of his own.

“Ah, Mister Holmes, good!” Irene says after a minute, shifting to give Sherlock a moment of unimpeded air. Both their breathing is ragged. Sherlock’s mouth and chin are shiny with Irene’s juices; she smiles and runs a finger through them. “Taste?”

Sherlock licks his lips, then takes her finger into his mouth.

John tightens his grip on his cock and speeds up.

“Very good, Sherlock.” His voice is growing rough. “I can tell that mouth is good for more than just deducing.” He hesitates, then asks, in his John Watson voice, “All okay?”

“Green,” Sherlock says, attempting to sit up to rub his nose against Irene once more.

“You want my cunt, Mister Holmes?” Irene lowers herself onto his face. As she begins to rock once more, hands and toes curling in the bedsheets to anchor herself just above Sherlock’s body, she says, “Oh, Captain Watson, his tongue _is_ skilled. He is well trained.”

“Can’t wait to get my own dick in there,” John says, circling the head of his cock with two fingers, watching Sherlock’s untouched prick twitch at his words. “Bet he feels so—ohhhhhh—smooth, so hot.”

“Like velv—aahhh.”

Irene takes her pleasure from Sherlock in a series of hip thrusts, gyrations, and moans that last about five minutes in total, John wanking all the while. The combination of the two of them is almost too much for him; Irene’s noises alone could drive him to the edge, sultry as her voice is, but Sherlock is making low, muffled noises as well, a mumbled hum punctuated with the occasional grunt or what John suspects might even be laughter. As her thrusts grow increasingly wild, she slides out of the coat entirely, letting it fall onto the bed behind them. Irene talks until the very edge:

“Oh, such a naughty tongue, dear boy. A _brilliant_ tongue, even—ahhh, you _do_ like that. Not as much as when Captain Watson has his thick cock up against your stomach, maybe, but it’s still good, yes, Mister Holmes? What a marvelous creature you are. Investigating my cunt juices, no doubt, filthy man—do I taste healthy to you? I do hope so.”

When she comes, her legs spasming so that her cunt slides directly onto Sherlock’s face and her arse sits on his chest, John grabs the base of his prick to stop himself from coming as well.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” John says, climbing onto the bed as Irene, panting slightly, pulls off Sherlock. “So very good for Miss Adler.” He sits up so that his cock is fully visible and swallows, quietly, burying his fingers in the folds of the discarded coat. “Would you like this, then?”

Sherlock twists his hands against the tie, flexes his own legs. “Where would you like to put it, Captain Watson, sir?”

“Oh, everywhere.” John’s mouth is running again, that hard, honest, unthinking stream of consciousness as his proper mind focuses on the wetness of Sherlock’s mouth, how full his lips are beneath the shine of Irene’s juices. “Today I’d like you to compare my cock and Miss Adler’s cunt, though, Sherlock. Do you think you could do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you write us a report on who tastes better?”

“Oh, yes, Captain Watson, sir.” Sherlock’s voice is thin, and his whole body vibrates.

John lifts the coat from the bed and watches Sherlock as his eyes follow the path of the black fabric through the air. “Did you like Miss Adler in this coat? It’s very beautiful; it must belong to a remarkable man.”

“She was remarkable, sir.”

“Oh, remarkable,” Irene murmurs, stroking his cheek. “My cunt is more than _remarkable_ , Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John grips the head of his cock and twists, lightly, watching his face for any sign of torment. His facial muscles flex and his wrists flutter within the tie, but his eyes roll back into his head with pleasure.

“Sherlock. You’ve been good; don’t stop here. Don’t demean Miss Adler.”

He smiles and tests the tie once more. “It was an acceptable cunt, sir.”

John throws the brunt of his weight onto Sherlock’s lap, pulling his cock once more. “Naughty Sherlock, looking for punishment,” he says as Irene redoes the knots. “You want discipline?”

“I want your cock, sir.”

Again John has to stop for a moment to breathe, to absorb the words actually coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. Just the word _cock_ in Sherlock’s deep, breathless voice makes him throb, makes his head spin. Irene finishes adjusting the bonds and slides her fingers into Sherlock’s hair, anchoring his head and neck close to the bed for a moment as she massages his scalp with her nails.

“Behave for Captain Watson,” she tells him as John slides into the coat and Sherlock’s eyes bulge in their sockets. “Look, he’s bringing you that _beautiful_ coat once again. Maybe if you suck his cock well enough he’ll let you wear it too.”

Sherlock whines. It’s a soft noise, almost inaudible above John’s rampaging heartbeat and the echoes of Irene’s voice, but at the sound of it John scoots forward to position the head of his cock a few inches from Sherlock’s mouth, the hem of the coat trailing against Sherlock’s stomach.

“Sir—” his voice is thin, almost dreamlike “—I was the best cocksucker in my house at uni, sir.”

And his mouth stretches so beautifully around the head of John’s cock when he feeds it to him, his tongue wriggling around John’s slit until he squirms. John leaves it there for several moments, shifting his hips so that he grinds the coat’s hems into Sherlock’s chest; Sherlock groans around his cock, and John curses and pulls out.

“Filthy, brilliant brat,” he whispers. “God, you’re so _filthy_.” He runs a finger down the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “And so beautiful, yes?”

Sherlock sticks out his tongue. John, laughing under his breath, inserts the first several centimeters of his cock.

In truth, Sherlock could probably take all of John; he’s thick but only slightly longer than average, and if Sherlock ever had a gag reflex, he lost it to the vagaries of science a long time ago. That impertinent tongue is even more delicious than the tight heat of Sherlock’s mouth, however, and John writhes under it, particularly when Sherlock moans around his prick, creating what John’s fairly sure must be a few different frequencies.

“Clever, to treat my cock like a musical instrument.” His voice is almost gone at this point, sublimated into a tight exhale. “Like those filthy, gorgeous fingers of yours on the violin.”

“Heard you played me a sad song on that violin, Mister Holmes,” Irene murmurs at that, stirring from her place at Sherlock’s head. “Play Captain Watson something happier, won’t you?”

“I think he already is,” John says as Sherlock hums and slides his tongue halfway down his shaft. Irene settles behind them; out of the corner of his eye John sees her wrap a hand around Sherlock’s cock, and he feels it in the moan Sherlock releases. “Oh, Miss Adler—so very nice of you.”

“It’s time for Mister Holmes to let go, I think,” Irene says, rolling the head of Sherlock’s prick between two fingers as John pulls out of his mouth entirely to give him air.

“Give it to me. Please. Captain.” Sherlock’s voice is fucked out, rougher than John’s ever heard it.

“Will you come if I fuck your mouth?”

Sherlock’s eyes close and he smiles. “I will if you talk to me, sir.”

“Oh, you beautiful thing,” John whispers as Sherlock opens his mouth and he slides part of his cock in. “Wretched filthy brilliant arsehole.” A few more centimeters. “Glorious smartarse _wanker_.”

He’s fully in, and he no longer has the presence of mind to treat Sherlock gently. His thrusts are full and quite fast; behind him, Irene has sped up as well, her fingers flying up and down Sherlock’s shaft. John leans in the best he can with his cock sheathed in Sherlock’s mouth so that Sherlock can hear him.

“You arsehole, you wanker, you beautiful brilliant _cock_ , god, your mouth is the _best_ thing. Your face is the _best_ thing. _You_ are the best bloody thing I know, stupid wanker, bloody buggering delight.”

John could laugh at how it’s _that_ that makes Sherlock Holmes come, his hips bucking up under John and Irene, but John is too busy dancing on the edge himself. He holds himself back until he feels Sherlock calm and then thrusts in, once, twice, and comes himself down Sherlock’s throat, shivering through the white-hot tunnel of orgasm as Sherlock’s tongue works frantically around his shaft to drink down each drop.

He pulls out as soon as he stops, aware of the lack of proper air Sherlock has probably been subject to for entirely too long now. Irene offers her cum-stained fingers to Sherlock, and John’s stomach twists at how Sherlock takes her into his mouth.

“That’s it, Mister Holmes,” she says, eyes twinkling, as he sucks. “Mix you and Captain Watson right up.”

John’s limp dick throbs dully; Sherlock moans around Irene’s fingers.

Eventually John crawls off Sherlock and slides out of the coat as Irene goes to fully undo the knots in the tie.

Sherlock licks the rest of John and Irene from his lips. “Miss Adler is saltier,” he announces as his right wrist is freed. “Captain Watson is sour, very sour. I like it, sir. Ma’am.”

John drapes the open coat over Sherlock’s chest as Irene frees his left wrist and begins massaging both. Sherlock stretches like a cat beneath her touch and the weight of the heavy fabric. “Do you like _this_ , Mister Holmes?” The title sounds strange on his tongue; he can feel Captain Watson and his commanding tones melting away in the aftereffects of orgasm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, smiling up at him. “It’s very beautiful, John.”

* * *

John returns from the pub not long before midnight to find Sherlock in his room. Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at the Irene packet with no phone included; John raises both of his at the sight of Sherlock sprawled, unmoving, across the bed.

“Did you already lose the phone?”

“Living room.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled against the duvet. The softness of the tone sends a shiver of unease up John’s spine, and he turns away. “Captain Watson.”

John smiles because he’s not sure what else to do, because his cock twitches at that before he’s even processed the noise pattern as speech, because Sherlock’s voice, though distant, is clearer with those two words.

“Yes, Mister Holmes?”

“The next time I see Miss Adler, I will send her your regards. Sir.”

John’s heart sinks back in his chest. “Thank you, Sherlock.” The last thing he needs is Sherlock in a place to speak to the dead. “Good night, Sherlock.”

He turns back into the living room, headed for the stairs and his own bed at last. An open drawer in one of Sherlock’s many tables catches his eye as it hangs crazily, half out of its well.

His customary eye roll stops halfway through when he discovers the plane ticket stub lying on top of Irene Adler’s phone: London Heathrow to Karachi. Mycroft’s voice resonates at the back of his skull: _It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me._

“Sherlock?”

The silence puts steel in his spine. He marches over to Sherlock’s bedroom and stands—in parade rest. “Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock looks up and him and smiles. “Green, Captain Watson,” he whispers, before burying his head in his pillows.

 

 


End file.
